


Surrender

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Angst, Infidelity, M/M, Mentions of past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:05:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His face. Your fist. Things were never supposed to be this difficult</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> There's nothing left to fight

Part of you wants to laugh when you see him. His clothes don’t fit, and his glasses make his tiny face look even smaller. How could this little weed be what you’re looking for? How could he have the voice you’d heard on Mike’s answering machine?

He proves you wrong, though, the second he opens his mouth. Mike makes him sit to one side whilst the next guy auditions and he draws his knees up to his chest and smokes moodily until the guy leaves and he can sing again.

This happens all day, and eventually you sidle up to him. Keep the peace.

“You’re definitely in, man.”

“Then why am I sitting through this bullshit?” He asks, and blows a stream of smoke in your face.

You snatch the cigarette from him and take a drag, hand it back. “Mike just likes to make sure he’s doing the right thing, you know? He likes to view all his options.”

He nods and looks away as another guy comes in. “You the guitarist?” He asks you, still watching the new singer introduce himself to Mike.

“Yeah.” You say. “I’m Brad.”

“Bradley?”

“Bradford.”

“Well then, Bradford. Do you wanna get a drink later?”

You do. And. He doesn’t get drunk as quickly as you do. Which should be embarrassing. But he’s doing all the talking. About his dad, his step mom, the betrayal of his best friend…

All you want to do, suddenly, is protect him. Because all he’s been to you since he met you is nice, friendly. He’s fragile, and you need him.

But then he says, “I have to go call my wife.”

And your heart sinks

When he comes back from the payphone at the other side of the bar you lean over the table and grab a fistful of his cheap, Hawaiian print shirt, and pull him toward you. Kiss him roughly, possessively.

He pulls away and stares at you, eyes dark and lips parted. “How far away do you live, Bradford?” He asks.

“Not far.”

“Then I think you should take me home with you.”

And before you can say anything he’s grabbed his coat, and is disappearing out of the bar.

You fuck, of course, and he wraps his legs around your hips and forces you to go slow. He stares up at you, half blind, his glasses rolled on and bent out of shape somewhere on the bed, and you bite his lower lip.

His finger nails of one hand claw at you back desperately, pulling you closer, the other fists the sheets as he arches against you.

He’s so hot and fits beneath you so perfectly it’s hard to keep it together. You reach between your bodies and wrap your hand around his erection, pumping him in time with your thrusts. He mewls softly and closes his eyes, shudders.

You follow him over the edge with a moan, pressing your face to his sweaty neck and whispering his name.

And you lie there clinging to each other in the dark for the rest of the night.

It happens more and more. And in between he calls his wife, says, “I’m looking at apartments. Soon, baby, I promise. Just listen out for us on the radio.”

Mike disapproves. Because he has a wife and a sordid past and you’re both bringing that into the future. You tell him to shut the fuck up, what does it matter as long as Chester can still sing?

And maybe it’s out of spite that you fuck his face so hard that night his voice is croaky the next day. And when Mike glares at you across the room you just sink lower in your seat and bare your teeth.

Samantha somehow gets your home number, and you stare blankly at the caller I.D. when the phone rings. Chester, from the bedroom, he’s shouting. “Answer the fucking phone, asshole.”

Eventually he stomps through into the kitchen and stares at the caller I.D. with you.

“Who is it?” You say.

“My wife.”

You walk away before he picks up the phone. You go out with Rob. Once an alcoholic always an alcoholic, and he drinks you under the table then gets you a cab back to Chester who is sitting under the porch light, smoking.

“Where were you?”

You shrug and sit down heavily beside him. “Nowhere.”

“Okay.” He stubs his cigarette out on the wood of your porch railing and gets to his feet. “I’m going to bed.”

You grab his wrist before he can move, tighten your grip until he winces and throws you a look.

“Let go.” He says, but you don’t. “Brad. Hey. You’re hurting me, get the fuck off.”

You can feel the tiny bones grinding against each other and you stare at him blankly.

Then you let go.

He snatches his hand away and holds it close to his chest, cradled, protected. He stares at you confused, blinking behind his newly repaired glasses, then drifts inside. Closes but doesn’t slam the door behind him.

You sleep on the couch. But even from downstairs you can hear him crying.

He makes some phone calls and you ignore him. But a couple of days later his bags are packed.

You walk into the bedroom and he’s shoving his clothes into the suitcase he showed up with. Looks up at you guiltily, then looks back down.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Samantha is going to be flying out as soon as I can get the money. So I’ve found a place, the landlord doesn’t charge too much.”

You stare at him. Take a step forward. You don’t know what happens. The back of your hand. His face. Then him on the floor, looking up at you. It’s hard to look defiant with fear in your eyes. And you laugh at him.

“Fuck you.” You say. Because it’s easier than I love you.

His apartment is far enough away for you to miss him thoroughly. Didn’t think it’d ache this way. You visit, just once, and you press him hard against the wall, kiss him desperately.

He pushes you away. And he says, “You should go.”

He won’t look at you. How fucking dare he? You grab him and kiss him again, bite down on his lower lip. You say, “Pick me. Tell her not to come. And pick me.”

He ducks his head so you can’t see his eyes and steps away. “You should go, Brad.”

It was never supposed to be anything more than sex.

It was never supposed to hurt either of you.

You hurt him enough, though, for this to be karma.

Of course he is going to pick Samantha, with her everlasting adoration and her little hands that she never uses to punch him.

You go to see Mike then, because you don’t know what else to do. It starts to rain as you walk away from his dingy apartment block and you aren’t wearing a coat. You think of his wife back home in Arizona. Waiting for his call. And you want to fucking scream.

By the time you get to Mike’s you’re soaked to the bone. It’s Anna who answers the door and you clench your fists.

“Mike?” She calls back into the house. “It’s Brad.”

Doesn’t let you in. She always was a bitch.

Mike appears eventually and smiles, falters, frowns and tugs you inside. “What’s going on?”

You’re a crying pathetic mess by now and when you tell Mike you hit Chester he doesn’t look like you’re confessing to a big anything.

“We know.” He says. “The band, I mean. It’s so obvious.”

You’re dripping water all over his ugly wooden floor and he’s watching each drop as it falls from your clothes.

“I fell in love with him.” You tell Mike, who stops watching the drips to look at you.

“Oh.” He says, sadly. Fucking pity. “Oh, Brad.”

You don’t need a hug. But that’s what you get. You need drugs and beer. You need Chester to come to his senses.

And you have to wonder when you became such a needy, pathetic bastard.


End file.
